


Three Little Words

by firstblush



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstblush/pseuds/firstblush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Who is the first to say I love you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scuffin_MacGuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scuffin_MacGuffin/gifts).



> Another super old Texting fic I wrote after being asked who said I love you first.

Everything has been happening slowly. Pushes in boundaries and tentative explorations: these are scarcely more than the subtle weathering of Anders’ stubborn refusal to acknowledge anything is out of the ordinary between them. Nevertheless the shift in their relationship is getting harder to dismiss. It’s not because Sebastian seems to stay out longer with the others simply to converse with him, neither is it because he visits the clinic with flimsy excuses, telling Anders with those full lips of his and with reddened cheeks that the sisters have managed to procure an excess of supplies and asking if Anders might be able to put some of them to good use. Rather it is because Sebastian doesn’t appear to have figured out he ought to be concealing his feelings. That having a set of blue eyes that basically bare his emotions in all their vivid detail and a smile that lights up his features the moment he catches sight of Anders can’t exactly be passed off as normal, try as Anders might to make up some alternate explanation for it.

Anders can at least reassure himself that it is decidedly one-sided. When Sebastian lingers to watch him heal and the cramped, hectic atmosphere of the clinic at peak hours results in the occasional narrow shimmy between patients and Sebastian’s obtrusive presence, it is no fault of his own. He certainly pays no heed to the brief press of Sebastian's waist up against his, and Sebastian’s gentle hand on one arm to steady him as he goes passed, and Anders only feels irritation at the little apologetic smile that Sebastian is so prone to giving for any inconvenience caused. The sudden tripping pulse of Anders’ heart is just a product of his annoyance and nothing else. He can brush off the fact that even though there are no windows - nothing to indicate the time aside from the eventual waning of those seeking his skills as a healer when the hour grows truly late - that on the days (which are increasingly rare) when Sebastian doesn’t show up during the height of the bustled care of the sick and Anders finds his gaze is continuously pulled toward the doorway, this is just merely him dreading that he will still at some point see that unwanted face. On those nights at the Hanged Man, when he gets up to leave only to find the weight of Sebastian’s fingers lying featherlight against his arm, accompanied by a softly made inquiry on the progress of his manifesto, Anders isn’t pleased to start another debate with Sebastian, just pleased he gets to prove to Choir Boy how wrong the Chantry is. 

But Anders has been fighting things so long, fighting the Templars, fighting the part of him that is Vengeance and not Justice, fighting the first stir of feeling ignited by wide, trusting eyes, that when instinct twines together, indistinguishable, Anders doesn’t immediately notice that somewhere along the lines he has stopped the fighting-his-own-feelings part. He doesn’t immediately pull away from those accidental touches, which seem to be happening now more often than chance might suggest, and he doesn’t question when Sebastian stays until the clinic grows quiet, offering a soothing cup of tea and even more soothing words of encouragement. 

The first kiss that takes between them is on one of those nights, when the day has been particularly discouraging with the endless surge of visitors, and Anders is too exhausted to think beyond the comfort provided by Sebastian’s firm palm braced against the small of his back, and the broad shoulder that pillows his head. It’s when he looks up, the slight forward tilt of his chin and his nose brushes Sebastian’s jaw, and his tired gaze meets one that is too focused in quiet appreciation (that slow burn of persistent adoration really) that Sebastian bows his head, lips soft and brief and warm in their initial greeting of Anders’ own like the whisper of breath that follows. There are times, the next morning, Anders wonders whether he didn’t just dream it, until Sebastian, who has grown a little more bold after Anders fails to make immediately clear any disgust, begins to catch Anders’ wrist during the lull between patients, with just enough force in that diversion of momentum to bring them together in kisses that steadily slide into something less chaste. Things that leave Anders groaning against Sebastian’s mouth with needy sighs, his lips thrumming tender in the cool touch of air at their parting, and Sebastian a little flushed as he finally leans back, grinning, his glance hazy and pupils blown. 

On a day of no particular significance, the clinic turns out to be slower than usual and Hawke has not come around for some favour or to enlist Anders on a trivial quest to diminish Kirkwall’s bandit problem. So Anders has the bulk of the afternoon to himself, holing up in his makeshift office where he loses track of minutes making alterations to his manifesto. When Sebastian finally arrives to a relatively empty clinic and thus calls out, “Anders?”, the distracted reply he receives is: “In the back, love.”

It is vaguely concerning how thoughtlessly, how very naturally, that term of endearment rolls off Anders’ tongue, with no more resistance present than water offers the pull of a current down a river path. A sharp contrast from the stuttering breath that stops short in his throat, stills his lungs from drawing any more air under the heavy press of his heartbeat as he listens, suddenly alert, suddenly attentive to any indication that Sebastian might have not actually heard him. It is nothing he meant to say. He isn’t even sure when he began to think of Sebastian in this fashion, as something that is his, of them being together. Waiting in that uneasy silence, Anders’ wrist remains held half-bent, pen poised between his fingers, a dark spot of ink seeping along the fibres of parchment as it spreads where the nib has paused, fine-point digging into the surface of the sheet. The eventual (inevitable) echo of Sebastian’s footsteps draw louder, closer, like a condemning drum beat, and then he arrives at last, to stand in Anders’ doorway. 

As easily as Anders has always been able to read Sebastian’s expression, he finds he is suddenly unable to now. Anders wonders if maybe it has never been simple and that he’s just been misinterpreting it all along. Because there are details he hasn’t noticed before. The slight crease between Sebastian’s eyebrows, the shadows under Sebastian’s eyes, a hint of tension in the smile that greets him. Maybe faith in that rigid form the Chantry teaches isn’t so easy to overcome, and Sebastian isn’t really ready for anything more meaningful with a mage than a few impulsive kisses with no real strings attached. Already Anders feels his fist tighten around his quill, dull nails driving into his palm, and his expressions steeling, guarded and cynical, ready to tell Sebastian he’s too busy for any social calls today.

But Sebastian moves too quickly from the doorway. Anders has only had time to stand up at his desk before discovering Sebastian has already joined him beside it, and there is nothing hesitant, no room for misunderstanding in that eager mouth that presses to his, in the scrape of fingers tucked between the folds of his coat as they curl against the groove of ribs, gathering fistfuls of thin, flimsy linen from the shirt beneath it. Between that kiss comes a low murmur, “I love you,” and a hint of apology exists in those words, a hint of shyness though Sebastian has never once been shy in Anders’ company. 

“I love you,” he repeats the phrase, sounding and looking more like himself again with an edging smile full of reckless emotion and earnest blue eyes. “I never imagined it would be so easy to tell you. It isn’t right that you should have had to wait to hear it.” And Anders realises that whatever strain of fear or uncertainty he might have glimpsed earlier wasn’t a result of conflicted faith, but just inexperience. Sebastian has had lovers in the past but maybe nothing like this, nothing that makes his heart tremble with the sheer force of his affections. Anders can’t help but laugh a little, and work his hands under Sebastian’s breastplate to spread fingers over the span of a solidly muscled chest, dipping forward so the tip of his nose nudges Sebastian’s cheek before he lets their lips meet again, languid warmth and sliding wetness and the bare graze of teeth.

“You didn’t have to say it,” Anders confides. “I’ve been able to see it on your face for months. But is rather nice to be told, love.” And this time when “love” slips off his tongue, it is exactly what he meant to say.


End file.
